Una. 'I'm sorry I can't shake hands. Mine are all milky; but
Mrs Vincey is going to teach me butter-making this summer.' 'Ah! I'm
going to London this summer,' the girl said, 'to my aunt in Bloomsbury.'
She coughed as she began to hum, '"Oh, what a town! What a wonderful
metropolis!"

'You've got a cold,' said Una.

'No. Only my stupid cough. But it's vastly better than it was last
winter. It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D'you like
doctors, child?'

'I don't know any,' Una replied. 'But I'm sure I shouldn't.'

'Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,' the girl laughed, for
Una frowned.

'I'm not a child, and my name's Una,'she said.

'Mine's Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I'm
Squire Bucksteed's daughter--over at Marklake yonder.' She jerked her
little round chin towards the south behind Dallington. 'Sure-ly you know
Marklake?'

'We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,' said Una. 'It's awfully
pretty. I like all those funny little roads that don't lead anywhere.'

'They lead over our land,' said Philadelphia stiffly, 'and the coach
road is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went
to the Assize Ball at Lewes last year.' She spun round and took a few
dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side.

'It gives me a stitch,' she explained. 'No odds. 'Twill go away in
London air. That's the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me.
D'you hate the French, chi--Una?'

'Well, I hate French, of course, but I don't mind Ma'm'selle. She's
rather decent. Is Rene your French governess?'

Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.

'Oh no! Rene's a French prisoner--on parole. That means he's promised
not to escape till he has been properly exchanged for an Englishman.
He's only a doctor, so I hope they won't think him worth exchanging. My
uncle captured him last year in the FERDINAND privateer, off Belle Isle,
and he cured my uncle of a r-r-raging toothache. Of course, after that
we couldn't let him lie among the common French prisoners at Rye, and
so he stays with us. He's of very old family--a Breton, which is nearly
next door to being a true Briton, my father says--and he wears his hair
clubbed--not powdered. Much more becoming, don't you think?'

'I don't know what you're--' Una began, but Puck, the other side of
the pail, winked, and she went on with her milking. 'He's going to be a
great French physician when the war